Deadly Origins
by mml.you4ea
Summary: Sherlock and Watson are once again drawn into the world of their most unusual client to date - self-proclaimed vampire Artemis Merrill. Artemis needs help facing an ancient and evil nemesis, mythological legend (and vampire) Arawn. You may want to read the prequel to this story, Faux Pax, to learn more about Artemis. Joanlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello lovely readers - thanks so much for your reviews on my first Elementary story! You inspired me to work on a new one. I do not own the characters from Elementary, but Artemis Merrill comes from my imagination. I hope you enjoy their new adventure together. **

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Holmes was sleeping on the couch when he received a call at 3:26 A.M. Coming out of a deeper than normal sleep, Holmes nevertheless answered on the third ring, "Captain Gregson, how may I be of assistance?"

"Holmes, did I wake you?" said Gregson over a good deal of noise in the background.

"I am perfectly awake now," said Holmes, sitting up on the couch. Swinging his legs to the floor, he faced a large wall, where the contents of several cold cases interwove themselves, based on his thoughts and those of his business partner, Ms. Watson. In addition, to the far left and far right, sat "personal projects" for Watson and Holmes. Although neither one of them chose to discuss their collage outright with the other, that they shared their ideas publicly said something about the contents of their minds and hearts. Both projects represented personal growth. At the center of Holmes' collage sat a picture of Artemis Merrill, a prior client, and her deceased lover, the poet laureate, Dennis Macklemore. Spreading out, like a field of flowers, were many pictures and phrases, some simple, some provocative, related to the threads that ran through relationships of all types. Watson's collage ran more toward the theme of self-love and compassion, as well as a bit of self-indulgence.

"Good, there's a situation here; something like I've not seen before. Can you come?" Gregson gave Sherlock an address. The tightness in Gregson's voice was unmistakable.

"Absolutely, I'll be leaving in 8 minutes." Holmes said. He was on his feet and ascending the stairs as he hung up and used speed dial to call for a cab. "Watson," he said somewhat less loudly than he normally would. Clothing was already set out for her. Watson had learned readiness when awoken in the middle of the night. Watson rose easily tonight and dressed quickly. She met Holmes at the door just as the cab drove up.

"Seven minutes, forty-six seconds," said Holmes as the cab left the curb. "The art of motion has been perfected in a New York brownstone…news at 11."

"I'm glad you recognize the perfection in that fact, Sherlock," Watson turned to Sherlock, a tiny smile on her lips. There had been a number of conversations and compromises around the eight minute marker. The rest of their ride was wordless.

It was still dark when they arrived at a row of brownstones, much like the ones they had just left. A light rain fell with the promise of more to come as they entered a crime scene that was humming with activity. There was definitely a buzz in the air as the crime scene investigators interacted. Something was off, given the looks members of the team gave each other. A young woman in uniform led them to a bedroom at the back of the first floor. The brownstone, unlike the comfortable one Sherlock and Watson shared, said "museum" more than "home". Someone with a good deal of money and a taste for matte chrome had created a formidable showplace. Even the bed was custom-sized, larger than a king both in width and length; and in the middle of it was a very large, gelatinous, red mass of the same approximate size as a human being. Except for bits that resembled human flesh and bone, the mass might have been mistaken for a strange piece of modern art. Sherlock stepped forward to examine the body next to a couple of forensics team members who were taking samples.

Watson observed from a short distance away as Gregson gave her notes about the case.

"We think the victim is Alexander Ashcroft, single, age 42. Ashcroft runs a hedge fund, or did. He was supposed to close a deal with some Australian company via a video conference at 1:00 A.M. this morning at his office. He never showed up; after a number of phone calls, the head of security came out to check on him. When there was no answer at the door, he came in with a key. That was about 3:00 A.M., and he found this mess."

"Hedge funds have a head of security?" said Watson.

"Apparently so; the last time Ashcroft spoke with anyone was a couple of hours before the video conference. He told his secretary he would not need a town car sent. He was planning to drive his own car to the office."

"Any idea what types of investments they made?" said Watson.

"Technology companies, that's what Ashcroft's secretary said."

"Watson," Sherlock called her from his perch on top of the bed just outside the bloody semi-circle. Due to the immense size of the custom bed, Watson was able to climb on top and crouch next to Sherlock without disturbing the scene. "What do you make of this from a medical perspective?" he said, pointing to the lumps of flesh, his voice almost a whisper, his tired eyes were dark gray as opposed to their normal blue, but his look was determined.

"Chemical reaction of some sort, I'm thinking. It looks like the body came apart here. But given the timeline, I can't see this being the brownstone's owner, Alexander Ashcroft. Even with powerful chemicals and special equipment, it would take a few hours to get to this. Ashcroft spoke with his secretary two hours before this body was found." Watson's eyes flitted across the mess without cringing. "I don't know if I'm seeing things, but I'd swear this body is still dissolving. It looks smaller than when I first came in the room. I don't smell any chemical scent in the air. This is definitely odd."

"Baring a new and powerful pandemic superbug or a rolling chemical bath, Watson, I would agree; this can't be Ashcroft. But if it isn't him, then who is it, and why was the body left here?" Sherlock shook his head as he crawled backwards off the bed, Watson following his lead.

"Thoughts?" asked Gregson.

Sherlock looked at Watson, nodding his head slightly. Watson answered, "If this is Alexander Ashcroft, then you truly have a mystery on your hands. I don't know of any process that would allow body disposal in this way within a two-hour period, especially with no apparent chemical residue. However, if this is someone else, then that opens up other possibilities."

"Such as why someone would leave a body in this condition in Alexander Ashcroft's brownstone," said Sherlock, moving about the bedroom as he spoke, looking at various articles of clothing in drawers and objet d'arts on tables and bookshelves. "I'm going to examine the rest of the house, if you'll excuse me," he said, moving into the hallway and the rest of the brownstone.

"We'll be in touch," said Watson as she followed Sherlock out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much for the reviews, follows and favorites. You guys make my day! I hope you like this second installment. I don't own any rights to the characters in Elementary, but I do appreciate borrowing them to have some fun.**

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It was nearing dawn by the time Sherlock and Watson left the crime scene. They had found nothing of added significance in their search of the brownstone. The body, along with the sheets and pieces of the mattress had been taken away to the morgue. The intensity of the rain had increased to a downpour as a cab drove them back home.

Joan broke their silence. "Hey, do you want to try that new café near the synagogue on Roosevelt? There's a line every time I pass it, but the rain might be to our advantage. I heard they've got great breakfasts, really unique stuff."

"Minced doves assholes perhaps?" whispered Sherlock slyly as he stared out at the rain.

Joan rolled her eyes at the comment. She knew Sherlock was distressed by how few answers he'd found at the scene. It was as if a forensics crew had come through Alex Ashcroft's brownstone and wiped the crime scene clean before the police got there. "Sometimes cereal and peanut butter toast gets a little old," said Joan lightly.

"I've been re-reading Charles Bukowski, forgive my attitude. I'll be happy to try the new café once we make some headway with this case. Until then, I feel guilty wasting an hour and a half in line to eat breakfast when I could serve it up myself in five minutes. I could then use the remaining hour and twenty-five minutes to research Alex Ashcroft's case." As if on cue, Sherlock's phone buzzed, signifying an incoming text. After reading it, he turned the phone to Watson, nudging her lightly with his elbow.

Watson turned her head to look at the screen. The text said:

**Alex Ashcroft's cause of death will not be discovered through the autopsy, Mr. Holmes. Don't expect much movement in this case through conventional channels. If you want to know what happened to him, come see me – Artemis M.**

"Does this mean we can go to the café?" asked Joan.

"Why not?" said Holmes, with some irritation in his voice, "it would seem we'll be wasting our time until this evening when Artemis Merrill provides us a guided tour at the morgue." Joan gave the cab driver the new address.

A moment later, another text arrived:

**Even if you don't care about Alex's death, it's important that we meet. Are you available for consultation this evening? I fear your lives may depend on it. – Artemis.**

Holmes and Watson read the text together. Watson turned to Holmes and saw the irritation that had been present moments before bleed out of him as he sighed deeply.

"I hate this business – this vampire nonsense." Holmes practically spit the words out. Although they had spoken about the earlier case they "resolved" for Artemis Merrill, the subject of whether she was truly a vampire (and the gruesome consequences related to said case) had never been mentioned. But a belief in the truth of that claim had been hinted at in many ways with the biggest source of proof sitting in the middle a collage that adorned their living room. And there was research on the topic: books, websites, and newspaper articles; there was a proverbial web of content that Holmes and Watson had made their way through in the following months. But the belief that such a secret stayed hidden in human society for so many centuries did not sit well with the modern detective or his companion. So other solutions were sought, not just by Holmes and Watson, but by others who were touched by things they could not understand or explain. Today was the first time that Holmes had ever hinted at his conclusions from that research.

"I think I've lost my appetite," said Joan as the cab slid into the curb.

Holmes gently placed a hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. "Do not fear Watson, daylight brings us a measure of safety. And we'll need sustenance to think this through." Holmes paid for the cab, and they quickly made their way from the warmth of the interior, through the chilled raindrops and into the café.

About the time they finished breakfast, Sherlock got a text from Gregson requesting they come to the station to go over autopsy results. Despite having been in the café for about an hour, the weather had not improved at all as their cab wove through the now busy streets of daytime New York City. On the way to Gregson's office, Sherlock stopped at the machine on the second floor to get a paper cup of the lukewarm jet fuel that passed as coffee for visitors to police headquarters. Joan rolled her eyes but said nothing. "Don't judge me," said Sherlock as he picked up the cup and took a shuddering swig of the bitter stuff.

"I just thought the Skittles encrusted Granola squares, or whatever that was, would be enough to keep you going," said Watson.

"No, but at least I tried something new Watson. Unlike some people and their plate of peanut butter French toast."

"It was nothing like regular peanut butter on toast," said Watson, but her deadpan look was lost on Sherlock who was already charging down the hall.

Dr. Jim Hildebrandt was sitting in Captain Gregson's office, sipping from a cup of the same vending machine coffee. Gregson indicated to close his office door. Watson obliged and sat down next to Sherlock.

"I wish I had better news," stated Dr. Hildebrandt, the man bear in charge of the local morgue. The big man looked genuinely puzzled as he began to step through the autopsy of the body found at Alexander Ashcroft's brownstone that morning. Apparently, the body had continued to deteriorate after removal from the brownstone and was now in "a liquid state". This was despite their best efforts to preserve the body, which was literally breaking down at the cellular level, falling apart in the test tube and under the slide. The video he showed them of the autopsy, even on a desktop, was disturbing. The last bits of solid material seemed to melt away on camera.

Once the video stopped, Dr. Hildebrandt continued, "We _have_ determined the remains are those of a human male. We have not been able to confirm whether the remains belong to Alexander Ashcroft. We've got our best person trying to tease results out of a sample from the body. But for comparison to a known sample from Alexander Ashcroft, so far, we have nothing. There were no hairs or other DNA samples found in the home, period. It's almost as if no one lived at the house, or someone went to a great deal of trouble to clean out Ashcroft's brownstone before we got there. Frankly, I've never seen anything like it. We now have a team at Ashcroft's office to look for a DNA sample for him there."

"Do you know whether the process that caused the remains to break down in that way started at the scene or somewhere else?" asked Watson.

"Given the circumstances and our understanding of existing technology, our best guess is that a process started somewhere else and the body placed at the brownstone where it continued to break down. But we can't prove that theory because we can't find any trace of the chemicals used to break down the body. We've ruled out any process that's natural to human bodies breaking down. We're not seeing toxins produced by massive bacterial growth. We have also been assured by outside experts that the rapid decay has not likely been caused by a super virus…good news there," Dr. Hildebrandt raised his thick eyebrows or emphasis.

Captain Gregson continued, "So Ashcroft's secretary states she spoke with him about two hours before the body was found. Is two hours enough time to make that happen with his body, if someone killed him immediately after that phone call?"

"Even if Alexander Ashcroft got off that phone and immediately fell into a heated, chemical bath with the intention of melting him down, my answer would be no. There simply wouldn't be enough time, and there should be traces of the chemicals used. But again, we're talking about known technology. Chemistry is a universe; there's always a chance someone has discovered some new, cool way to get rid of a body more efficiently."

Watson's eyes met Sherlock's and she raised her eyebrows for emphasis, but said nothing .

Sherlock added, "Who would likely fund the type of research that could advance that technology? It's a small group, I'd imagine; we'd be talking about drug cartels, terrorists, and maybe despots...people who would benefit on a large-scale from this process, correct?"

"My wife might want to argue that point," said Dr. Hildebrandt, chuckling at his own morbid joke. "However, there are places in the world where burial ground is at a premium and legitimate sources might be interested in the research to find an alternative way to handle the body."

Sherlock turned his attention to Gregson, "So given that list of likely suspects, do we know if Alexander Ashcroft has a connection with criminals?"

Gregson responded, "Hard to say; Bell has looked into a list of known business associates but so far, nothing's surfacing, at least not anything that stands out. The company seems clean, but they haven't been particularly cooperative. We're working on getting a list of clients and employees."

Sherlock stood up; he rolled his shoulders and shook his arms, as if to discard the tension in the room. "Is there anything else Dr. Hildebrandt?"

"When there is, you'll be the first to know. We're sending samples to the FBI labs; maybe we'll get a hit on the process. If we do, it could narrow down the suspects very quickly. Good to see you again Mr. Holmes…Ms. Watson."

"Thank you, good to see you too," said Sherlock as he and Watson exited.

"So it seems Artemis was correct," said Watson once they were far enough from Gregson's office to not be heard.

"Yes, but whether she can answer our questions remains to be seen," said Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for reading. I do not own the characters of Elementary. I look forward to hearing from you, and hope you enjoy this installment.**

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Joan went for a run when she got home despite her fatigue. The rain had let up finally but more was forecast for later in the day. Sherlock begun combing many business resources to find out more information about Alexander Ashcroft, and had come up with nothing of any note.

Upon Joan's return, Sherlock called out, "It gets more curious by the moment, Watson. Ashcroft PE, as the company is called, has no web site, no Wikipedia page. They do not Tweet or Facebook. Alexander Ashcroft is practically a mirage in the business world. A few years ago, The Village Voice did a piece on private equity firms, and called Ashcroft PE 'a juggernaut on a flight through a black hole'. I would not disagree with them."

"So Ashcroft could be funding the mob or drug cartels?" said Joan as she came out of the kitchen and sat down on the couch to drink a post-run glass of coconut water.

"It could be except when you casually snoop into the records of say the DEA, the CIA, or Interpol, Ashcroft doesn't show up there either." Sherlock's demeanor was one of quiet agitation. "I don't want to depend on Artemis Merrill in regard to this case, but I'm afraid we may have no choice. I don't really want to be involved with her again, and frankly I don't even know why."

Joan put a hand on Sherlock's tense shoulder. "It's okay to feel repelled by something we don't understand and that we think is dangerous."

"Joan, they say there are two kinds of people, those who see danger and run away and those who run toward it. The latter are the kinds of people who go into police, fire, and emergency support. I always thought that I too was that kind of person." Sherlock turned his face toward Joan. His eyes, still gray in the dim light of growing darkness, held an expression that was difficult to interpret. The expression would have seemed like fear in another person, but in Sherlock, his stony manner put an edge on the vulnerability. Her hand, still on his shoulder, Joan extended it to wrap around Sherlock's back.

"Sherlock, we all have our kryptonite. I know that I had a hard time dealing with Artemis when we first met her. My background is science; at first I had to dismiss what she said about her condition. And I felt a great deal of anxiety, not knowing what to think about this game I thought she was playing. But then I thought about things I have seen as a doctor that I couldn't understand. In medicine when you deal with people in life or death situations, life is full of surprises. There are patients who should have every chance of recovery that simply don't make it. And there are a few patients with a terrible diagnosis, terrible odds of making it out of their situation alive, and they do it. So I finally decided to accept whatever Artemis says she is. And with that acceptance, I opened up a door to the unknown. I'm in a place where the laws of the universe need not apply. It's difficult, but empowering too." Joan's face was impassive, but she spoke her words with the lightness of acceptance and the freedom it brought.

Sherlock sighed deeply and relaxed further into Joan's embrace. He turned to look at his personal collage. "If universal laws do not apply, then what mechanism do I use to deduce Watson? Deduce…that's what I do, that's who I am."

"I don't know what mechanism you'll use Sherlock, but I know there's no one else more prepared to learn something new about the universe than you. But you have to wrap your arms around this and accept it, whatever it may bring."

Sherlock said nothing, but he turned to Watson and put his arms around her in an impromptu hug. "Thank you", he whispered in Watson's ear, holding her for a moment. Pulling back, he added, "I truly appreciate your faith in me, Watson."

Watson smiled softly. "I'm getting cold; I should go upstairs and shower. Then I'm going to see if I can nap a little. Any idea when or where we are meeting Artemis, assuming we will do that tonight?

"Her last text said she'd come by at sundown."

"Maybe you can get some sleep too while we wait," said Joan, getting up from the couch.

"Swimming in coffee, my brain is not ready for rest yet. And I'm hoping to hear something from the hacker network about Ashcroft PE."

Artemis Merrill arrived just after dark in what was apparently her standard uniform of black jeans and turtleneck. Her dark curls were smoothed down and plaited into two braids. Somehow she managed to look younger and more dangerous at the same time. "A pleasure to see you again Ms. Watson," said Artemis as Joan closed the door behind them. Joan led Artemis to the kitchen, where Sherlock was finishing a bowl of cereal as Artemis joined him at the table.

"Ms. Merrill, thank you for coming to see us. Alexander Ashcroft - you have answers, correct?" Sherlock pushed aside the empty bowl, picking up a mug of tea. Watson sat down with her own tea.

"I do Mr. Holmes. Are you ready to hear them? And Ms. Watson, are you? I don't ask that question lightly; there is danger in that knowledge."

Sherlock looked at Watson, who shook her head in the affirmative. He added, "There is also freedom in knowledge Ms. Merrill, and we are ready."

Stillness seemed to come over the room as Artemis began. "The body you found was Alexander Ashcroft. That is a certainty."

"According to the coroner's official report, the body belongs to an unknown male, cause of death unknown," said Sherlock.

"And the official report will remain that way; there will never be a match. But I know the body is Alex's because I knew him in my private life. He was a vampire like me, and he was not just any vampire. He was my maker, the one who turned me into a vampire. I was able to identify him by the smell of the remains. I would know it was him, even if only a molecule remained."

"Does this also explain why they can't figure out how the body decomposed?" added Watson.

"Yes. What you saw was the natural breakdown that occurs when a vampire is staked through the heart with a wooden implement. Vampires break down faster, presumably since we are already dead. And we do not naturally shed hair, skin cells…anything that would leave a DNA trace. It all makes sense so far, scientifically. But now the mystery begins," said Artemis, and she continued. "Alex was a vampire for hundreds of years before I knew him. He was powerful, and that means there are limits as to who could have driven that stake through his heart in his own house. There are even fewer suspects when you look at Alex's life. Alex and I live were very much alike in that we lived, for the most part, outside of vampire society. But that had not always been the case. I believe that an old nemesis has returned." Artemis' voice had grown quieter as she spoke until it was barely a whisper.

"And when you spoke of danger, I assume you think this nemesis may wish to put a stake through your heart as well?" said Sherlock thoughtfully as he leaned in further as if to examine Artemis more closely.

"I fear he may wish to put a stake through the heart of anyone, vampire or not vampire, whose had anything to do with Alex or this case," said Artemis. "This vampire is not in his right mind. And I believe there is real danger to you and Ms. Watson if you pursue this matter further, danger you are ill-equipped to fight.

Sherlock put up his hand, "We will decide that when the time comes. Does this nemesis have a name, Ms. Merrill?"

"A…A…Arawn," said Artemis, her mouth stumbling over the word, but her dark eyes remained unblinking.

"A mythological god who created an undead army," said Sherlock. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes. Mythology often has roots in real history. Humans turned what they could not understand into myth. Arawn was and is a vampire; I have no idea if he was the source of those folkloric tales. But, I do know he is ancient and a maker of vampires who share special talents. I believe the modern term for the people he selects to turn is_ psychopath_. Only the cruelest and most heinous members of humanity piqué his interest."

"And how did he become your nemesis, Ms. Merrill?"

"Our paths crossed many years ago. And when they did, Alex and I took his most beloved creation away from him...we staked Jack the Ripper."


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